He did not look up from his foolscap.
Dot propped her chin in her hand as she perused the chessboard. “Knights, queen, king, bishops... why are no pieces named for dukes?”
“Itdoesseem an oversight,” Mariana mused. “I think because dukes would ruin the fun for all the other pieces. You see, dukes could only go in verystraight, narrow lines, so they would disapprove greatly of the bishop for having thenerveto do anything so original as move diagonally.”
Dot laughed. “What else?”
“And then... the duke would be able to tell all the pieces on the board what to do, because only the duke would know, of course. And no one wouldeverwin a game. Let alone enjoy one.”
“Cor! It’s a good thing dukes aren’t included with chess sets,” Dot said in all innocence.
“A good thing, indeed,” Mariana concurred.
“Oh my, it suddenly gotcolderin here, didn’t it, Dot? Did you feel a chill?”
Did his jaw set a little as he made his way to the table? Unless it was a trick of the light, she thought it had. Mariana allowed herself the tiniest surge of triumph.
The duke had settled in at the table with the same kit he’d brought down last night. This time, he’d snapped open the newspaper and begun to read. Perhaps looking for a fresh batch of people to judge.
Today Lord Bolt had received a message in response to the one he’d sent to Madame LeCroix, and it seemed she was amenable to saying a kind thing or two about Mariana, which could then be printed in the newspaper. Then Mariana had sung for fifteen minutes today in the ballroom and thought she was in fine voice, all in all, though she dearly missed a quartet or a good pianist to accompany her. Every time she sang on a stage, shewas entirely in the world of the song, and it was a welcome escape from everything else.
On the whole, today was an improvement over yesterday, and she was willing to believe it was the beginning of a trend.
“Your Grace, we’re given to understand that you’re writing another book,” Mrs. Pariseau said deferentially. She was intrepidly social, Mrs. Pariseau was.
“Yes.”
“How goes your work?” Mrs. Pariseau pressed.
“It goes apace,” he told her, politely. He flicked a glance up from his newspaper.
“Anotherbook?” Mariana took this up, boldly.
“Oh, Miss Wylde,” Mrs. Pariseau said, “perhaps you already know this, but he’s written a very famous book on honor!”
“What was your book called, pray tell, Your Grace?” Mariana ventured.
He stared at her. “Honor.”
She dug her nails into her palm in a vain attempt to keep her face from heating to pink.
“It’s very generous of you to share your expertise, Your Grace. How would anyone know the proper way to behave if we hadn’t a book on the topic?”
He regarded her coolly a moment. “Your question goes some way toward explaining your appearance in the gossip columns, Miss Wylde.”
A little silence ensued.
“I’ve another question, Your Grace.”
He fixed her with those eyes. She met them.
“What does one have to do in order to be dishonorable?”
“If we are adhering strictly to the definition of dishonor... it is knowingly behaving in such a way that impugns the dignity of another, or otherwise brings harm. To knowingly and without shame behave without regard for consequences that may bring someone else to harm. In so doing, to violate the rules of polite society.”
She found that she was gripping the table surreptitiously, as if to maintain her grip against the onslaught ofcertainty. What must it feel like to be so briskly, insufferably certain of oneself? He said things as though they were inalienable truths.
And what the hell did “impugn” mean?
